


it goes like this

by smallgreencactus



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Cuddles, M/M, Reminiscing, and ridiculously in love of course, non-au, so I'm making them feel nostalgic and sappy about it, the end of the show is coming upon us and I'm feeling nostalgic and sappy about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-28 02:00:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20770670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallgreencactus/pseuds/smallgreencactus
Summary: “D’you remember when we met?” Jared will ask.Of course Jensen does.





	it goes like this

It goes like this:

Jensen doesn’t believe in soulmates,

but Jared Padalecki – Jared who was the only other guy there; Jared with whom he’ll share the lead position on their own TV show before the year is half over if nothing goes suddenly and disastrously wrong; Jared who is also from Texas and likes the same team and the same cars and the same everything-they-could-think-of in an introductory small talk gone _spectacularly_ right – Jared turns back before he’s even really started leaving, back around to Jensen, and says:

“You know, we should grab a beer sometime. I just turned 22. I can drink now!”

And Jensen thinks (after they’ve made a date, after they’ve double-checked that they have each others’ phone numbers, after another, slightly astonished “I think that went really well in there”; an incredulously genuine “_Really_ good to meet you, man,”) he thinks:

_Holy shit, I love this guy._

He thinks it with his mind on the upcoming months, thinks it with his work-brain first and foremost. _Supernatural_ is a show about two brothers, and getting on with his co-star will prove vital for the success of the whole venture, he knows.

But he thinks it, also, with his skin still reverberating from all those eager touches – his hand, his arm, his shoulder, his back – thinks it aimlessly but emphatically, wholeheartedly.

He doesn’t yet realize that this is the very moment the universe has personally set out

to prove him wrong.

(They talk about it sometimes. Of course they tell the story at conventions a couple of times a year, add a little new, leave a little out… but sometimes they talk about it just because they think about it, just between the two of them.

“D’you remember when we met?” Jared will ask, and Jensen will nod, or he will smile, or he will grunt and say, “I don’t remember what I did last week,” just to make Jared laugh.

Fifteen years, next January.

“I remember,” he says this time, because he really does tonight, has been thinking about it before Jared even asked. Actually, Jared might have picked up on him thinking about it – unconscious, inexplicable thought transference happens between them to a degree that some might find actively creepy.

“I remember that giant gray hoodie of yours,” he tells him, “and those dimples.”

Jared smiles reminiscingly, and speak of the devil – Jensen traces a thumb over the right one. “And your hair was a mess.”

“What! It wasn’t a mess.”

“It was,” assures Jensen, “a total mess.”

Jared looks like he might want to argue, but Jensen sinks his fingers into said mess and cards through it, strokes it back from Jared’s face and tucking it behind his ears, and Jared settles for a content little noise and closes his eyes instead.

“To be fair, it’s still a mess,” Jensen says, just to needle him. “That’s probably why you didn’t notice.”

“Oh, shut up,” laughs Jared, half muffled into his chest. “You love my hair.”

“Mmh,” says Jensen, making it an I-doubt-it-but-I’m-humoring-you hum, and Jared pinches him, hard, in the side in retaliation. Jensen squeaks, trying to bend away, but there’s not much wiggle room to work with, what with Jared having commandeered most of Jensen’s front as his perfect place to have a lazy late-afternoon lie-in. The sun is shining in on them, Jared heavy on top of him, his limbs basically everywhere. In Jensen’s humble opinion, there’s not a more perfect place in the world.

Jared pats his hand apologetically over the spot he just pinched, still grinning. “Say it.”

“Say what?”

“Asshole,” Jared laughs, and Jensen takes up lazily petting his hair again, like he's always, always done. It’s started to retreat at the temples – just a little, but it has, in the last few years. Jared worries about it, is afraid he’s going to end up bald like his father – “It’s genetics, Jensen, it’s hereditary!” – and there’s nothing Jensen can really do or say to alleviate that fear or the possibility of it eventually coming true, except to love him harder, to make it up three times over for every piece and part of Jared that Jared won’t love himself.

Jensen loves him endlessly, so there’s no problem there.

“I love your hair,” he tells Jared, kissing his temple. “I love you.”

“Mmh,” hums Jared, squirming, if possible, even closer. “’love you too.”

“But not my hair?”

“I _hate_ your hair,” Jared solemnly assures him, nuzzling up to the closest spot of Jensen that _has_ hair – just behind his ear – and pressing a sloppy kiss there.

“Thought so,” says Jensen contentedly, and wonders how he ever didn’t know he was in love.)


End file.
